


The Artless Ones

by xrysomou



Category: All-American Rejects, Bandom
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm going to make you a badge. Tyson Ritter: Notorious Art Thief." A White Collar AU in which Tyson's ass really does belong to Nick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artless Ones

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: Not mine, never happened, never will. I don't know any of these people and none of this is true.

“Officer Wheeler!” Tyson beamed from the other side of the steel table as Nick walked into the visiting room.

“It’s ‘Agent Wheeler’, actually,” Nick said, shrugging out of his coat and sitting down opposite him. “As I remind you every time I see you.”

Tyson tutted, one eyebrow raised. “Ah, but we’ve been friends for so long now. Five years, two months and four days, Nick. Friends don’t use professional titles.” 

“Apparently they use the _wrong_ professional titles. And who said we were friends, anyway?” Tyson pouted at him ridiculously and Nick laughed, relaxing out of what he personally termed Standard FBI Stick-Up-Ass Posture. “How’ve you been, Tyson?”

“Same old, same old. My bed’s too small. I’m getting a permanent crick in my neck, see?” Tyson tilted his head to one side, wincing for dramatic effect.

“It’s your own fault for being so damn tall. You should ask the wardens for a bed that can take your stupidly long limbs,” Nick said serenely, watching Tyson under the harsh fluorescent lights. He was thinner than he was when Nick last saw him three years ago; his skin was pale and slightly sallow – a side effect of what Nick liked to call his ‘indoor lifestyle’, but other than that he looked perfectly healthy. 

Tyson smiled. “This is a maximum-security federal institution, Nick. Not the Ritz. So,” he said, resting his shackled hands on the table-top, suddenly all business. “Officer – Agent Wheeler. What can I do you for?”

“How do you know I haven’t just come here for a chat? Catch up on old times?”

“OK, firstly, you hate talking about old times. ‘Old times’ was when I was still working and you were trying - and failing, can I just say - to catch me. And secondly, I haven’t had visitors in over three years. Thirdly, you’re wearing your FBI monkey suit. You’re here to do business. As it happens, so am I. Let’s have it.”

Nick sighed. “Fine, fine. Wreck my carefully-constructed charade of friendship.”

“It was a beautiful charade.”

“Shut up. All right. I give in. What do you know about this?” He shoved a piece of paper over the table-top towards Tyson, pushed it a little bit further when he saw Tyson couldn’t quite grab it with his cuffed hands.

“Thanks,” Tyson murmured, eyes on the piece of paper, adding absently, “Maybe you could ask them to take these things off.” He shook his hands and the chain rattled loudly against the table. “I’m not a violent offender.”

“Standard procedure,” Nick said apologetically. “Besides, how do I know you’re not going to stab me with a pen and make a break for it?”

“I don’t have a pen to stab you with, and even if I did…” Tyson pulled a face, eyes still scanning the paper. “Ew, violence. It’s mindless, it doesn’t involve any brainwork.”

“It lacks elegance?” Nick suggested and Tyson looked up at him, beaming delightedly.

“Yes! It lacks elegance. Exactly.” Still grinning, he pointed at the piece of paper. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Agent Wheeler, but this is a Cézanne.”

“As at a matter of fact, you’re right –”

“ _Mont Sainte-Victoire_. Post-Impressionist, oil on canvas, one of his latest works, currently on exhibition at the Met.” Tyson’s grin, if possible, grew wider. “I’m guessing it’s not there any more.”

Nick glared at him. “Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?”

“Yes.” Tyson flicked the paper back to him. “I’ve been stuck here for three years, Nicky. With no visitors. None of my friends are stupid enough to visit me here. I’ve had absolutely no information whatsoever. I’m not running a con from behind bars. Can we move past this, now?”

Nick sighed. “Do you know who might have it, then? And don’t call me Nicky,” he added as an afterthought. 

“I have an idea,” Tyson frowned, propping his head on one hand. 

“You’re not going to tell me about it, are you?” 

Tyson smiled. “Now, Nicky. What kind of teacher would I be if I gave you all the answers?”

“Oh, fuck you –”

“I’ll make you a deal, though.” 

Nick eyed him warily. “A deal with a criminal. Well, this is a great idea.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t work well on you, Agent Wheeler. Look,” Tyson leant forward, deadly serious. “You want something from me, I want something from you.”

Nick took a moment to reflect on what he really wanted from Tyson, and then quickly shut down that particular thought process. Having a ridiculously pretty face plastered over his office walls for three years had been difficult enough; dealing professionally with the real Tyson, who managed to combine said ridiculous prettiness with obscenely long legs and a sense of humour, was even worse. It was possible that Nick was a little besotted with a convict. It just wasn’t attractive on an FBI agent.

Tyson was still speaking. Nick dragged his mind back to the situation in hand.

“What?” he asked, attempting to focus on the conversation and not the blue of Tyson’s eyes against the orange of his _prison jumpsuit_. 

Tyson rolled his eyes. “I _said_ , how would you feel about me getting out here and working for the Bureau for the rest of my sentence?” Apparently he took Nick’s speechless staring for an invitation to continue. “There’s a precedent, Nick. You talk to the right people, sign the right forms and I can be out of this place by next week, in the custody of the FBI.” He grinned. “Admit it, you could use the help.”

Nick swallowed, trying to keep the squeak out of his voice. “In what way is any of this a good idea?”

Tyson’s face settled into stubborn lines. “It is a good idea. I’m dying of boredom in this place, Nick. I could be a real asset to you guys, but I can’t do anything in here.”

“That’s _exactly_ where I like you! Inside! Where I spent three years trying to put you! Where you can’t forge or steal priceless art pieces and lead me and my guys a merry dance trying to get them back!”

“I don’t steal,” Tyson protested, eyes innocently wide. Nick snorted.

“Oh, so you just liberated those Gregorian manuscripts? You just moved them from one location to another? That’s stealing, Ty. I’m going to make you a badge: Tyson Ritter: Notorious Art Thief.” 

“I’m a model prisoner,” Tyson continued as though Nick hadn’t spoken. “You wouldn’t have any trouble at all getting me out. If you want to keep tabs on me, there’s a new tracking device they’re using – completely tamper-proof, nothing gets past it. I can _help_ , Nick. In here – it’s like my mind is going stale. And,” he added slyly. “From what I’ve heard, the FBI couldn’t find their ass with both hands.”

“We found you, didn’t we?” Nick said shortly. 

Tyson grimaced. “Touché.”

There was a heavy silence. “I’m sorry, ok,” Nick said eventually. “It was a nice try.”

“I’ll let you think about it,” Tyson leant back in his chair with an easy smile. “You haven’t heard my side of the bargain, yet.”

“Go on, enlighten me.”

“I give you select pieces of information about your Cézanne case and you go and do whatever suits do. If my info leads you wrong…” he shrugged. “Fine. I’ll stay inside. I’ll be good. I won’t bother you. But if you get the guy…”

“I can see where this is heading. Tyson, you’re a convicted felon –”

“So was Frank Abagnale Jr. Worked for him, didn’t it?”

“I’m not making any promises,” Nick dropped his head into his hands. “No promises. None.”

“But you’ll think about it,” Tyson said. “That’s all I need to know.”

“I’m regretting this already,” Nick mumbled into his hands.

“No time for regrets, boss. I need a pen.”

“What?”

“A pen. I like something to play with when I’m thinking.” Nobly ignoring the potential innuendo, Nick handed one over, watching Tyson flip and twist it in his fingers. Tyson watched him back, his eyes flicking from his suit to his face to his hands on the table. Nick fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. Tyson had a way of staring at people as though he wanted to absorb every detail about them. It was friendly, casual, but at the same time intensely unnerving. Nick wondered whether it was the same expression he wore when he looked at a painting. 

He cleared his throat. “Are there any pearls of wisdom, or should I just call it a day?”

Tyson blinked out of his reverie and smiled. “Cézanne’s not a popular Impressionist. Not compared to the others. He’s much more impersonal than, say, Renoir. Renoir’s all light and colour and vibrancy.”

“This is all great, Ty, but – ”

“ _So_ ,” Tyson continued, “He’s a gift to forgers. I guess that’s where your Cézanne is now. Being forged. Heard of Antony St. Cloud?”

“Yeah,” Nick said gloomily. “Slippery fucker. Always just on the right side of any law we throw at him. Please tell me he’s involved so I can send him down.”

“Dunno,” Tyson spun the pen until it was a blur on the table. “Maybe. From what I’ve heard of him, he fences. You know, he hands out forgeries to buyers –”

“I know what fencing is!” Nick snapped. 

Tyson grinned at him. “Smart cookie. Anyway. He’s a fencer. And he's into Cézanne. I’ve heard stuff about him – not recently, of course, but before you sent me to cool my heels in here. He gets his hands on a piece of art, makes duplicates, triplicates, and sends them off to various buyers, telling them it’s the real thing.”

Nick frowned, watching Tyson’s pen spin faster. “Isn’t that a bit risky?”

“It’s fucking stupid, is what it is. If he’s doing what I think he’s doing, he’s kept the original work himself.”

“To sell to the highest bidder, right?” 

“Probably. Not my choice of con,” Tyson shrugged. “Far too much risk of angry art enthusiasts coming after me with guns.”

“Angry art enthusiasts of the illegal persuasion?”

“You got it. So, hey,” Tyson leaned back into his chair, grinning broadly. “That was fun. You and me, solving things together. See how good we’d be if you let me out of here to come and play with you all the time?”

He rolled the pen back to Nick, who pocketed it, frowning. “Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m curious. You’ve got ten months left on your sentence, dude. That’s not long. Why go through all this hassle when you could just wait it out?”

Tyson’s smile was a little mocking around the edges. “There speaks a man who’s never been in jail.” He sighed. “So I’ve got my reasons. None of them are in any way illegal,” he added as Nick opened his mouth to say something. 

“Reasons,” Nick mused, standing up. “Well, that’s vague. Just – don’t expect anything, okay, Ty?”

Tyson grinned unrepentantly. “Sure I won’t, boss. Nothing at all. You’re going?”

“Yeah, I,” Nick gestured sheepishly at his watch. “I’m still on the clock.”

“But it’s nearly eight pm!”

“Yeah. You sure you want to join the FBI, Ritter?”

“You bet. So this has been fun. Oh – did you get my cards?” Tyson stood up, the cuffs on his hands clattering against the table. “For your birthday?”

Nick smiled. “I did. Thanks.”

“Those cards were from the heart, Agent Wheeler,” Tyson said earnestly. “I swear. I put more love and respect into those cards than I did into my alleged forgery of the Christ in Majesty manuscript.” 

“You say ‘alleged forgery’ like we don’t already know you did it. Are you ever going to tell us where the manuscript is?”

“That would imply I _know_ where it is,” Tyson’s smile was full of innocent good will. “Stop stalling. Did you like the cards?”

Nick cleared his throat, awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah I did. Thanks, Tyson.”

“No problem, boss. I can make plenty more when I come to work at the Bureau.” The guard came to escort Tyson back to his cell.

“You don’t know you’re coming to work at the Bureau,” Nick argued, he felt futilely. 

“Sure I do. Boss,” Tyson grinned at him as he allowed himself to be led away.

**

“Mike’s taking the Cézanne back to the Bureau,” Chris said, yawning as he clambered into the passenger seat. All-night stakeouts were a bitch. “The Met’ll probably be screaming for it back, tomorrow.”

Nick nodded, absently. “I will be so glad to get rid of this case. The director’s arranging a transfer, by the way. Ritter will be released into our custody tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, provided he doesn’t cut and run. He’s never going to let me live this down, is he?”

“Nope.”

**


End file.
